“Got the swimming medal at the Force Sports in 1912,” the detective replied tersely. “I haven't quite forgotten the trick.”
“I wasn't bad as a young man,” the barrister said modestly. “We must do our best, you see.” He held out the note. “There is no time to be lost.”
“If we are to turn the tables on the Yellow Dog,” the inspector said, speaking as plainly as his sore mouth would allow. He looked at the note. “Who wrote this?”
“I haven't the least idea,” Steadman replied truthfully.
The inspector stooped stiffly and picked up the knife. Then he looked at the door which opened inwards.
“We might keep them back for a bit with this, perhaps.” He went back and stuck the knife under the door, so that anybody trying to open it would inevitably jam it on the handle.
In the meantime Steadman had twisted himself, not without difficulty, up to the window frame. He peered down. The water was still some distance below them, and it looked particularly dark and gloomy, but at any rate it was better than falling alive into the hands of the Yellow Dog. He tore the note into tiny fragments and let them fall into the river. Then he called out:
“Come along, inspector. Pile up the rugs. They will give you a bit of a leg up.”
Furnival pushed them along before him.
“Now, Mr. Steadman, are you going first?”